


It's A Game

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Vibrators, are they in love, but is Hermann in love, just kidding Newt is totally in love, or are they just having a good time, we just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 17:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16022870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: It’s a game. They don’t have a lot of time for them, what with, you know, trying to save the world. Hell, they barely have time just for sex, let alone games that involve sex, or sexy games that don’t involve sex but strengthen their “intimacy.” Newt sort’ve kinda really loves that idea. Strengthening intimacy. Social bonding, if they wanted to determine biological needs and okay, even in his own head, Newt could fucking ramble.----Or! Newt torments Hermann with a blowjob. Hermann torments Newt with a vibrator. And everybody has fun.





	It's A Game

**Author's Note:**

> Challenged myself to write in Newt's POV and in present tense, which is not my usual go to move. So. If the tenses get confused, I totally slipped back to my usual.

Newt shifts slightly to relieve the pressure on his knees as he looks up that long, narrow bean pole view that he loves. Hermann’s pushing his hands through his hair, carding cowlicks up into sweaty lines that Newt knows, goddamn knows in his _soul_ , he’s going to be brushing back into place as soon as this is finished. Not that he wants to rush. The opposite, in fact. Newt puffs out hot air over Hermann’s slick cock and watches him shiver.

“You’re the one who wanted rules, dude,” Newt said, striping the tip of his tongue across Hermann’s slit. He drags it out, teasing him without touching anything but Hermann’s belt and his stomach. But, god, the low, rumbly moan Hermann makes is dynamite. Newt has to sit back before he just goes to town on this man again, god _damn_ he wants to. “You want me to continue, you better start talking me through it.”

“Fuck,” Hermann chokes out, trying to catch his breath.

Newt shifts again. He loves it when Hermann curses. It shoots right down his stomach and into his dick, still trapped in his jeans. He bounces his hips a little, just a little, just a taste of something, when Hermann looks down and hooks those long slender fingers into Newton’s cheek and shakes his head.

“I know. I know I know,” Newt whines, forcing himself to sit firmly on his heels. It helps push the vibrator into place and even if the sucker isn’t turned _on_ , Newt is. He bites his lip. “Look. Can you please just start saying something. It’s really not—”

“Oh, do shut _up_ , Newton,” Hermann answers, his voice breathy and tight, escaping from him in a burst. He pulls, just a little, the only way he knows how to beg for it, and Newt can’t even pretend to hold back a smile. “Am I really expected to prattle on when you won’t even—”

Newt sinks down onto Hermann with a moan as soon as the words start flowing.

It’s a game. They don’t have a lot of time for them, what with, you know, _trying to save the world_. Hell, they barely have time just for sex, let alone games that involve sex, or sexy games that don’t involve sex but strengthen their “intimacy.” Newt sort’ve kinda really loves that idea. Strengthening intimacy. Social bonding, if they wanted to determine biological needs and okay, even in his own head, Newt could fucking _ramble._

Hermann’s breath catches again. He takes a fistful of Newton’s hair and forces himself to talk.

“You’re a bastard.”

This coming from a real bastard.

Like, okay, Hermann, man, God love him, could get in a mood. And It all came back to this whole talking exercise. This thing that Newt cooked up as one parts revenge-two parts because it’s fucking hot. They _sorta_ talked about it? A little? Fine, it was really late and they were exhausted and Hermann was grumbling and grousing and going on all goddamn day. Like, just being a mean prick for no reason. Then, say he pulled Newt away from his desk because he wasn’t really _doing_ anything, even though he was absolutely waiting for cultures to develop and the actual point is that Hermann, fucking grouchy asshole bastard who Newt had been calling a grouchy asshole bastard for the last two hours, hauled Newt over to their beat-up basement discount couch and bent him over and went to town on him.

And it.

Was.

Awesome.

It was also just shocking enough that Newt didn’t say dick through it. He held onto the couch cushions for dear life while Hermann slammed into him, working out whatever gnarly frustration had wormed into his brilliant, if brilliantly pissed off, brain. Rough sex was not their usual go to move, but, apparently, Hermann needed it. He had enough sense not to fuck into Newt then, thank god, because they were dry, unprepped, just all that terrible jazz that leads to disaster, and he was so not looking forward to bleeding.

Hermann trapped Newt’s legs together in his tight jeans and pushed between his thighs after he licked his hand and got himself worked up just enough. It was messy. Even for Hermann, man, it was messy. Spit and precum do not a proper lubricant make, but these were desperate times. He had reached around to tug Newt off and holy _shit,_ those hands. Those hands. Those hands, god _damn_ , Newt could write a song about them.

When they were both spent, Newt collapsed over the back of the couch, his ass presented and his thighs a cum-slick mess. Hermann collapsed over the back of Newt. The pair breathed in tandem. Newt was too busy trying to catch his breath to say anything. Hermann gently kissed behind Newt’s ear and apologized.

“Dude,” Newt had said, finally, still panting. “Don’t fucking apologize. That. That was. Shit, I’m still tingling. I mean, like, right now? Fuck, I might actually—”

Hermann had made that annoyed little grunt in the back of his throat as he pushed up and off and slid down to the floor.

“Whoa, hey!” Newt had kneeled next to him, taking Hermann’s hand and inadvertently checking his pulse, his eyes. “Don’t do that. What’s wrong? Talk to me. You gotta—”

“Well how am I supposed to say anything when you go on and on and won’t _shut up_ ,” Hermann snapped, pulling his hand back. He dropped his chin against the couch, breathing evenly. Newt let him. Figured the guy needed it if he was still in a bad mood. “You were silent for a few blessed moments. And you just can’t turn it off. Can you?”

“Oh. Ha.”

Newt shifted, pushing one foot out and over Hermann’s “good” leg, accepting an arm raised as an invite to come snuggle up. Even if he was mad, which he was, he wasn’t mad enough to make Newt leave. And that happened sometimes. And that sucked.

“Look, dude, I’ll make you a deal, alright? Next time you want me to shut up, right? You get a free pass for a blowjob.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Like, there’s no way I can yak your ear off through that. Happy campers all around.”

“Newton, I’m—”

“But _you_ have to talk instead.”

“I won’t want to!”

“I think you will. I can be persuasive. Did you want me to demonstrate?” Newt leaned forward, teasingly reaching for Hermann, who slapped his hands away.

“No! Newton, Jesus, not _now_.”

“Okay,” Newt had said, laughing, tucking his hands back in to pat Hermann’s chest. “Next time.”

He looked up at those dagger-sharp cheekbones, watching his lab partner clench and unclench his jaw, his eyes skipping across lines of equations behind his eyelids before he opened them. Whatever knot he had had pulled free and he had pushed himself up, wobbling slightly until Newt steadied him, put his cane back in his hand, and he went back over to his chalkboard to scribble down whatever data had come to him during his coitus-inspired epiphany.

And Newt? Newt sat back down on the floor, counting holes in the grates until his timer went off and he got up to collect his samples.

Newt’s back on the floor now, too.

“How on Earth…do you find the energy? _Gott_ , Newt, you insufferable _bastard_ ,” Hermann whispers, biting his lip. Newt’s worried he’s going to shut up again and he’s going to have to pull off, which is fun, watching Hermann squirm, but his jaw’s starting to hurt, and he _really_ wants Hermann to turn on that vibrator. Newt is not selfish. Not entirely selfish. Not entirely self­ _less_ either. A man has desires. And, currently, that man desires a bullet vibrator switched on as it presses against his prostate. Is that so much to ask?

Hermann darts a tongue over his lip and pushes on and Newt thinks, not for the first time, that he loves him. That, honestly, terrifies him, so he occupies himself with flicking his tongue and dragging his lips across velvety skin. When he listens to Hermann start to come apart, he moans around Hermann’s cock, his eyes fluttering shut.

“I…I really don’t know w-what I’m s’pose.... _fuck_ …I’m n-not very good at…at this. _You_ , oh bloody Christ, Newton…. There. No, _there_. _Ein klein wenig mehr._ ”

 _Christ, I really need to get back into Duolingo_. Newt smiles, or thinks about smiling, or almost laughs as he sucks his cheeks in and, holy shit, Hermann _keens_.

There’s a second where Newt’s afraid he’s going to slip, so he flattens his hand on Hermann’s stomach, bracing his shoulder against the knee that’s flush with the desk. He minds the slightly bent leg that’s legit trembling against his other arm. He wants to ask if everything is still copacetic, but they’ve been doing this little dance for a while now and Hermann, by their third or so go at, uh, _whatever_ this is, had pinned Newt against his own desk and proved that the man was good. He was great. No further questions, your honor.

Thank god they went back to Hermann’s cabin this time, because there is actual space on the desk for Hermann to sit without having to move a bunch of shit. And, alright, it smells nicer in here. Alright, alright, it smells like Hermann, so Newt automatically loves it.

Hermann doesn’t slip. He doesn’t say anything and tightens his fist again in Newt’s hair, who pulls back to ask if he’s really going to stop right now when he’s so close. Closer, actually. Hermann goes tight as a guitar string and shoots a few messy streaks across Newt’s face, splattering his glasses, his mouth in these beautiful fucking lines, and his hair in an accidental aftermath. Newt blinks behind his glasses. Lenses. Hell of a deal.

“Newton,” Hermann whimpers, clearly ready to apologize.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Newt says, sitting back on his heels again. “That was—”

“Let me get a washcloth.”

“—exactly what I, wait, no. No, you promised—”

“At least for your hair.”

“For my hair? Dude.” Newt licks his lips, shivering pleasantly at the salty taste. “Lot more than my fucking hair.”

“Just a moment. Please.”

Newt wipes his face off with a quick swipe of clawed fingers, the other still firmly hooked onto Hermann’s belt. It’s almost comical, the way he’s hanging out of the front of his rumpled slacks, the way his face is all flushed, the way his hair is a mess and he looks all fuzzy through streaked glasses. Newt pulls, a little. Begging. He gets up to his feet and pops up on his toes to kiss Hermann.

“Slow down,” Newt says, grinning when Hermann blusters and wipes his own ejaculate—haha, Hermann would appreciate calling it ejaculate, he really would, the fucking nerd, oh god Newt likes him so much—off his lip. “Look. You have…my remote.” Hermann huffs and Newt quickly pushes forward. “No, hey, I’m just saying, we had rules and I am always here for a facial, like, hot as—”

Newt thinks Hermann is reaching for his handkerchief to wipe off his face or wipe off Newt’s face, since Newt is so not letting go of his belt. There’s a _click_ , barely audible if not for the muted quiet of Hermann’s cabin, and then Newt’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

“Ah. See? I hypothesized this might silence you as well.” Hermann lifts his hand, showing the round purple remote that was synced with his vibrator. Newt wiggles, swaying his hips left and right until it hits just right and he drops his head down. “There’s a good lad.”

“Dudeyoutotallycan’tjust—”

The vibrations abruptly stop when Hermann clicks the button again. He sighs, touching his eyebrows. God, that’s not fair! It’s totally fair because Newt was doing the same thing with the blowjobs, but the vibrator was hitting just so goddamn good, so goddamn close, and he crumples on himself, gasping hard.

“I’m getting a washcloth.” Hermann doesn’t kiss Newt again, but there’s this tiny lean, this little pat to the side of his head, that relays the intent.

“Fuck you, Herms! Get back here.” Newt bends towards his knees, shifting his little internal friend, and moans right when someone knocks on the door. “Well what the fuck? You got a booty call assigned after me?”

“What?” Hermann looks to the door, shaking his head. Whoever knocked knocks again and Hermann comes over, pushing Newton towards his attached bath—Hermann lucked out as one of the two remaining k-scientists to get the slightly larger cabin with the attached bath. Perks for his condition, though neither of them see it that way. They see it as bragging rights and bickering fodder. “Dude, don’t shove.”

“Clean yourself up,” Hermann hissed.

“You don’t have to—”

Another _click_ , and the jolt has Newt gaping open-mouthed at the ceiling. It buzzes beautifully, jolting past his knees and making his toes curl. It’s over just as quickly. Newt curses his kneecaps before he stumbles into the small bathroom, the door shut behind him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and sighs. Yeah. Alright. Maybe he shouldn’t help Hermann accept visitors with Hermann’s cum streaked across his face.

When he’s rinsed off to the best of his ability—and maybe garbled some of Hermann’s cinnamon-flavored mouthwash, which, gross, but, whatever, it doesn’t hurt his mouth or something like that—Newt pokes his head to see if there really is a guest with them. Hermann is mid-change, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling a fresh pair of slacks up. He pinches his tongue between his lips while he’s trying to hoist up his pants and it’s honestly so cute?

“Who was that?” Newt asks loudly as he steps out so Herms isn’t completely thrown off balance.

“We have a meeting,” Hermann answers, standing up to finish what he started and belting his pants together. “With Marshall Pentecost.”

“Oh, what? Why? What happened?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“So who told you?”

“Simmons or something or other. One of the J-Techs under Mr. Choi. Blonde hair. Red beard.”

“Fuck, and it’s now? It has to be right now?”

Hermann stands tall, smoothing down his shirt. He nods, but ends with his chin lifted up defiantly.

“You’re invited too,” he says, eyes widening before he snatches up his cane and heads to the door. He’s still wearing his blue blazer jacket, his credentials pinned to his shirt. Newt slaps his hips and finds his card clipped to his pocket, trailing after him.

“Man. We were just getting started.”

“You were just getting started,” Hermann says and before they exit his cabin, he blocks the entryway with his arm, barely looking over his shoulder. He waits as Newt almost runs into his arm, pauses, and steps back. “If. If you are good, Newton…I will…be amendable to finishing what we started.”

“I—”

Hermann steps away, telling Newton to hurry along. And Newt, oh boy, he hurries.

It’s gotta be just about midnight. Late enough that most sane people are headed off to bed, not late enough that this impromptu meeting isn’t the rudest thing since personalized ringtones and alarm clocks and pavlovian impulses to throw said alarm clocks against metal cabin walls. Newt forces a hand into his tight jean pockets, walking mostly normal. He thinks he’s walking mostly normal. He thinks about it too much and is afraid it’s making his gait that much more obvious, so he stays sorta in Hermann’s shadow to block anybody from seeing him hitch his knees up too high or sway his hips a little. Like, yeah, he’s gone more than half a day with a plug in, but, man, right now? No easy task.

 “Gentlemen,” Stacker says, already in the lab with a familiar blue folder in hand. “We need to go over last week’s report.”

Hermann, god love him, snaps a quick salute just on principle. Newt stops before he barrels the guy over, but he touches his hips, a little pinch of thumb and index finger, and he steps around to lean against the nearby desk.

Hermann’s desk.

Across the line.

Which is totally fine, because this isn’t dissection time, honestly.

But still.

It’s Hermann’s desk and that alone makes Newt’s brain split right down the middle between listening to this report and thoughts of Hermann finishing what he started and _Jesus_ , his pants are tight. He crosses his legs right as he crosses his arms, looking somewhere around the vicinity of Stacker’s chest.

“What can we help with?” Hermann asks in a crisp voice that would sound better in Newt’s ear, a quiet rush against his skin as one of _those hands_ slips his shirt tails out of his belt.

Newt wipes his face and swallows a groan just as Hermann glances back at him to give him a look. Is he worried? Is he embarrassed? Is he going to give up on games? Shit! Newt moves to stand up and decides, _nope_ , his erection is going to be _way_ too obvious, so he leans back again. Cool as a cucumber. Sure.

“There’s concerns over the armor of the last kaiju,” Stacker answers, flipping open the chart. “We nearly lost Crimson Typhoon due to the blunder with that cranial blow.”

“I mean, I thought we were doing, like, double-checks on them being really really dead,” Newt answers, trying hard not to chew his lip to shit. Stacker doesn’t even look up, still flipping through his charts, and for whatever reason, Newt wants to be acknowledged. It’s _his_ data they’re going to tear apart, of course, if it’s kaiju physiology. Like, why did they even _bother_ grabbing Hermann? He starts to stand, his fingers twitching in irritation. “Like, nobody is keeping heads intact anymore. And, yeah, fine, we don’t want them intact, I guess. I have no idea how I’m going to get a brain, honestly, because—”

 _Click_.

Newt’s mouth snaps shut.

A bead of sweat makes a nice, neat line down the side of his face as Newt uses every last ounce of self-control he’s ever learned all the way back from kindergarten and just shuts the fuck up. He digs his fingernails into his hand, swallowing his words.

_Click._

Newt could honestly collapse at the sheer relief when the vibrations cease. That little fucker is _powerful_ , and he breathes hard through his nose, trying his damndest not to moan because god _damn_ he wants to. He stares at Hermann, who has the gall to look mortified, like his hand _slipped_ or something. Hermann’s mouth starts to twitch, another fucking apology, but Newt shakes his head and bites his bottom lip so hard he wonders if that’s blood or sweat he tastes.

“You were saying?” Stacker says, casually looking up from the file that he’s now holding out to Hermann, because he trusts Hermann to reinterpret the jargon into something more palatable for the Marshall to comprehend. Like his fish analogies are difficult. Whatever, dude. Newt would so start a fight if he wasn’t trying to force, like, an ounce of blood back up to his brain.

“What’s the concern…about the armor, sir?” Hermann asks, stepping over and using himself to essentially block Stacker’s line of sight to Newt at the desk. “I’m certain they’re trying to retweak the weaponry, but I didn’t think we had budget for something like that.”

“No,” Stacker answers, handing the report over to stab one of the tables. “Response time.”

“Oh.”

_Ohhhhh._

Newt closes his eyes when he realizes this totally _is_ Hermann’s field and he can try and take a fucking breather as he recovers. He doesn’t dare try to sink into Hermann’s rolling chair, even though his legs are near jelly, but he takes a few steadying breaths and puts a hand to his stomach.

“I know your concerns,” Stacker says, heading off Hermann’s argument that rooting around in the coding to boost the neural load to increase speed and dexterity of the jaegers themselves has, in the past, been near disaster for the pilots. There’s plenty of good men and women who don’t have some of their basic motor functions because of failed tests and those souls weigh on Hermann like heavy chains. “I’m saying, I need you to run through it again. See if there’s something we can do. Yes?”

Hermann’s shoulders sag before he nods his head. “Yes, sir.”

“And, Newt?”

Newt jerks up like Hermann’s pushed his literal button, crossing his hands at his belt as he hums his response.

“If you can get a report on my desk about the necessity of keeping a specimen of the secondary brain that I can _understand_ …I’ll look into what we can do to recover one.”

“Oh! Yeah? For real?”

Stacker just nods, snapping up the report and leaving it in Hermann’s hands. “I thank you again, gentlemen. I know it’s an unreasonable time—”

“Not a problem,” Newt says conversationally, taking up the brunt of the conversation as he watches Hermann wilt.

“Clocks set for three weeks. Let’s see what we can do,” Stacker says, clapping Hermann hard on the back. Hermann almost smiles, which is pretty good for him, actually, but Newt knows where his lab partner’s mood is really at. “I hope to see your report by week’s end.” With that, Stacker walks out of the lab, the doors closing with a satisfying, low-register _thunk_.

Hermann’s just standing there, looking through the walls at the contorted faces of test pilots seizing in unruly apparatuses while they try to fix the response times. Newt knows that look. He knows that haunted stare and that pale color and the little wobble of Hermann’s leg, so he shoves away from Hermann’s desk, walking as briskly as his body will allow, and grabs Hermann’s arms.

“Hey,” he says. When Hermann doesn’t even look at him, Newt shakes him. Just a little. Nothing crazy. He touches Hermann’s cheek, those brown eyes igniting when they snap to Newt’s face. “Hey. Look, nobody’s going to just plug any new coding into the piloting system without testing it a bunch of times. And by nobody I mean you. Maybe J-Tech, but Stacker trusts you with this, right? Or else he wouldn’t have made us come down here in the first place. We can do this.”

“Your coding is abysmal,” Hermann answers, his voice low and gravelly as he puts on his own armor, his anger slipping into place to protect himself. Newt’s not gonna let it slide this time.

“Yeah, but at least I understand it enough to be helpful,” he snaps back. Their eyes lock, and Newt waits, waits, _waits_ , until he pushes his glasses up his nose and breaks first. Whatever. Not a contest of wits or anything. “I’ll start the coffee.”

“You don’t have to stay up with me. You—”

“And let you have all the glory of figuring this shit out? No way, dude.” Newt winks, wags his finger, and sets off to their little wannabe kitchen setup with a janky coffee machine on an equally janky metal cart. “Cream and sugar or just straight up black tonight?”

“I do think we should have the strong stuff,” Hermann says, relenting, his voice smoothing out a little.

Hermann sighs to himself, but Newt’s back is already to him, rummaging through the cart to get out the coffee grinds. He’s bent over, pushing aside three different cans of coffee to get to the black bag in the back. The one with the little skull and crossbones drawn on the masking tape that’s keeping it sealed. One hand stays steady on the top of the cart while the other reaches. He’s totally going to grab the creamer packets he stole from the caf and mix them into their cups because Hermann is a liar for saying he doesn’t like it a _little_ sweetened. Maybe not Geizlerian sweet, but a little. Newt pays attention. Newt doesn’t even need to read his mind for that one. He—

 _Click_.

 It’s the simple fact that he’s already holding onto the cart that doesn’t have him dropping to his knees when the vibrator kicks on. And the angle of leaning over is so perfect, it’s damnable. Newt clenches his teeth, trembling instantly. He curses again and again, “ _fuck fuck, Herms, fuck_ ,” and holds on as his vision spirals into wild colorful fractals behind his eyelids.

“I promised,” Hermann says softly across the room. Newt can’t make out where he is, if he’s moving closer or further away, so focused on not breaking his kneecaps as he carefully kneels down. His hips are rocking back and forth, adding friction to a renewed erection that is annoyingly grating the teeth of his zipper. Teach a man to wear underwear…maybe. “You were good, Newt.”

Newt whines, his eyes shut so tight as he stretches his face and neck towards the ceiling. He’s relieved or startled or startlingly relieved to feel Hermann’s fingers on his neck that he opens his mouth, panting.

“I feel it is only fair to return favors. If you insist on staying up with me, I would prefer you were not distracted by…what we started earlier.”

Hermann pushes the remote and Newt thinks he’s going to edge him, turn it off until he’s begging like an idiot, but the vibrations rock harder as Hermann dials it up and Newt scrambles to find Hermann’s elbow, holding on for dear life.

Newt’s rocking more insistently, his free hand dropping like lead from the cart and twitching over the zipper of his pants. He fumbles, unable to get the button popped out or at the very least grab the zipper and drag it down. He whines again, unable to string together a few vowels and consonants into any semblance of a word, English or otherwise.

“What do you need?” Hermann asks, leaning closer so Newt can actually feel his breath brush against his cheek. “One so insatiably verbose, I think you can—”

“ _Please_ ,” Newt nearly shouts and drops his head back against Hermann’s torso.

 _Click_.

Newt swallows every filthy thing he’s ever thought to say in his life, stuck on a breathy “mmph” sound as his hips circle up and down on nothing but air and calves. He holds Hermann’s arm hostage, ready to snap it in half.

“Newton. I do believe we have established rules for our dalliances.”

 _Oh_ , fuck _you_ , _Hermann._ How was this fucking fair? The guy was almost crushed by thoughts of failed Jaeger pilots in the past and now he’s playing his dom card like he’s trying out for a local dungeon. And _dalliances_? Oh, so they’re _dalliances_ now? Fuck. This.

“I need your help,” Herman says, his voice soft and gentle.

“Fuck you,” Newt grits out.

“Yes. Hence why I need your help.”

The statement bowls Newt over, crashing into his head without lodging into place. He wipes his knuckles on the thigh of his jeans, blinking at the coffee cart. Then his head snaps back and he looks at Hermann towering over him. Favorite bean pole. Favorite. Everything. Even when he’s being a sadistic sonuvabitch.

“What?”

“Quiet, Newton. Up to the chair,” Hermann says. Newt almost repeats himself, so Hermann tugs his arm, motioning for his rolling chair. “Up. I won’t be doing this on the floor.”

Newt looks between Hermann and the chair before he takes a leaping start, nearly tripping over himself to slam into the seat. It rolls away and he arches his back as the vibrator is jostled inside, his fingers going white where he grips the armrests. He almost hears Hermann laugh and is sure he masks his amusement with a little scoff. Oh, he’s trying so hard to be mean. But if that’s what gets him through this, then great. Newt will let him be as mean as he likes.

Hermann says nothing. He stands there, looking at Newt, his hands folded neatly over the head of his cane. He looks contemplative, his shoulders straight, his chin tilted up again, so he can regard Newt down the slope of his nose.

“Look, if—”

Hermann doesn’t even turn it on. He simply holds up the remote to show he has it ready and Newt feels phantom vibrations before his brain registers nothing is happening. Everything tingles. His toes fucking tingle. There’s an obvious wet spot spreading on his jeans and he crosses his legs as he snaps his mouth shut.

It’s no fun if they don’t challenge each other. It’s a game. Everything important to them, really, is a game.

The remote sits on the desk, easily in reach, as Hermann goes over to Newt’s side of the lab. Newt watches him with the intensity of a laser beam. Sweat is beading across his forehead again. This little game is going on longer than their usual routines and well beyond the confines of their usual parameters and he has enough time to wonder why. Why? Hermann could just as easily kept the vibrator running until Newt finished on the floor and, yeah, he’d probably have to run to his room real quick to get a change of pants, but then they’d have more time to rework Hermann’s copy of the updated program and maybe try and figure out that bypass function for response time but nope! Hermann is playing with him. Deliberately. So…why? Stress relief? Torture? Because the dude _likes_ him? Maybe?

“You’ll have to excuse me, Newton,” Hermann says conversationally across the lab, pulling open a few of Newt’s drawers, clearly looking for something. “I honestly did not mean to push the button while the Marshall—”

“Dude,” Newt whispers.

“Quiet,” Hermann says with the tone of a professor talking down to a student. Why does _that_ shoot straight to Newt’s dick? _Fuck_. “It was an embarrassing little mistake, but…you handled yourself so well.”

Newt shifts when he sees some flash of pink across Hermann’s cheek. He finds whatever he’s looking for and snatches it up, slowly coming back to his side of the lab. There’s a tube of surgical lubricant in hand and, okay, that’s not really for…well…it _could_ be, but it’s not like—

“You’re really going to let me fuck you?” Newt asks, looking up.

Hermann does not meet his eyes and the blush grows with goddamn brilliant intensity across his face.

“Your restraint earlier was…inspiring.”

He means “arousing,” but Newt’s not going to push him to admit that. Not when he’s standing there, lube in hand, face lit up like the summer sun.

“We’re going to go back to being uneven if—”

“Newton,” Hermann says, closing his eyes for a moment. He has such pretty eye lashes. Newt doesn’t get nearly enough time to admire them, but they are so pretty. “Please. Be. Quiet.”

“You get off on that, don’t you?” Hermann’s jaw twitches and Newt raises his hands. “Shutting up. Do you. Do…let me do you. You know.”

Hermann almost steps away and Newt reaches, using the wheels to close the distance, and grabs Hermann’s hand. He looks up, his mouth firmly shut, and skates his hands along Hermann’s stomach, watching him flush and stutter out something that’s supposed to be mean, but drips with want. Newt licks his bottom lip and undoes Hermann’s pants way easier than he could do his own. He holds the flaps of Hermann’s fly open and places a kiss directly over the band of his boxers, mouthing down.

“Already done that,” Hermann whispers, his voice taking a smoky edge to it.

Newt only smiles, takes the elastic band in his teeth and pulls down. Hermann keeps his pants at his ankles and it might make maneuvering awkward, but it makes dressing way easier, should someone decide to check out the lab after midnight. Why? Who knows. But Hermann’s just paranoid enough to think about it, so Newt lets him keep them.

It’s easier to undo his own pants and he springs loose with such a contented sigh, he almost comes from relief alone. Newt sinks back, closing his eyes to pull back from the edge. This doesn’t happen nearly enough, and he wants to savor it. He wants Hermann to savor it. He totally yelps when he feels _those hands_ , cold with lube, slick down his shaft in three long, languid strokes.

Hermann is pushing a hand across Newt’s mouth, kissing the top of his own hand while bracing the chair back against the desk again. He shushes Newt, giving him a few more strokes. Newt shakes his head and Hermann stops, removing his hand for Newt to speak.

“I’m so fucking close. Please, dude,” Newt says in a rush, and tugs Hermann’s face down to kiss him properly.

“Newt,” Hermann murmurs against his lips and Newt decides to drag his teeth across Hermann’s neck, thrumming with desire when he hears the other man panting. “Newton. Please….”

This so doesn’t happen. Not often. Not even rarely. Newt begs because he knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it from Hermann if he really applies himself. Or barely applies himself, depending on the mood. Forcing manners is also part of the game. That’s all.

But _Hermann_ just _does not_ beg. Not with his words. Newt can hardly even think as he turns Hermann around and brings him down to his lap, rising up to meet him. Hermann’s voice breaks when Newt enters him, a strangled sound that smooths out into a primal moan that makes Newt’s head spin. _Those hands_ fist his hair hard enough to make his eyes water and he drops them both back into the chair.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hermann groans and Newt claws his chest, ranking his nails across the wrinkled fabric of his shirt. He grabs Hermann’s hips, thinks better when he hears the stiff hiss of air, and holds Hermann’s ribs as Hermann pushes on the armrest and drives the rhythm. There’s not much up and down for them, but Newt is so _not_ going to complain. He’s caught up in the sounds of Hermann, these breathy curses and strained moans. He’s caught up in the smells of musty fabric, sterile soap, salty sweat, and a whisper of mint from tea drank hours ago. He’s caught up in the weight atop him, the warmth wrapped around him, the pressure, the shiver up a slightly curved spine he wants to trace with his tongue so badly it makes him ache.

Newt bucks his head back and helps drive up as best he can, pumping his hips once, twice, before he’s undone by it all. He shouts Hermann’s name into his shoulder blades, digging into the fabric of that ugly ass grandpa jacket that he wants to steal and squirrel away in his bunk and sleep with every goddamn night. Newt screws his eyes so tight he can actually see stars.

Hermann whimpers at the wet heat inside him, still circling his hips.

Newt’s not a total bastard. He slips his hand down Hermann’s stomach, blindly following the trail of fabric, then skin and wiry hair and fists him. Two good strokes are all he needs before Hermann spills over his fingers.

They sit there, limp bodies loosely tangled on the seat. It’s not comfortable, but it’s not _not_ comfortable, and they need to catch their breath. Newt’s hands gently circle around Hermann, holding him without impeding his movements.

They can’t stay there long. Hermann’s starting to rub his hip, betraying the ache that must be spreading, and, to be honest, Newt’s toes went numb from Hermann’s weight like five minutes ago. They shift, eventually pulling away from each other with a little uncoordinated twist and a few muttered complaints that are soothed away by moments. Newt wiggles his hips out from underneath Hermann, rising stiffly and arching his back again before he walks stiffly towards the doorway.

“Where….where’re you going?” Hermann asks, his words strung together.

“I gotta take this fucking vibrator out,” Newt answers.

“Can’t it wait?”

“No way, dude. Give me five minutes.”

Hermann humphs something, sounding put out. God, it’s cute. It’s so fucking cute, but Newt’s still walking away. There’s a bathroom literally right outside.

“Five minutes, okay? Then we can work on your—”

He doesn’t have time to turn before he hears it.

 _Click_.


End file.
